


An Overdose (Of You)

by juxtapose



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M, One-Sided Sherlock/John, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:24:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juxtapose/pseuds/juxtapose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-"The Reichenbach Fall". John reflects on one of Sherlock's many analyses, and how it still rings true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Overdose (Of You)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this pre-Reichenbach, actually, but after seeing the episode (in all its brilliance, might I add) I figured it was still pretty relevant. Enjoy? Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Exactly a week after Sherlock dies, John remembers.

In the screeching silence of 221B Baker Street, he fixes his glossy gaze on the violin sitting strewn on the mismatched coffee table where Sherlock had last placed it, and John remembers. It had been a snippet of a moment, but one that had stuck like glue to the forefront of John's mind.

They were in the middle of one of their heated arguments Mrs. Hudson had always fondly dubbed as "domestic", and it began over something silly, of course, like it always did.

"Sherlock, you _said_ you'd behave in front of Melanie," John all but yelled, stomping his foot indignantly. Sherlock, meanwhile, was nonchalantly playing a tune on his violin at the window, looking out onto the busy London street. John tried again: "Sherlock. Are you even listening?"

"Partially," Sherlock muttered, striking a finishing note, "The point still stands, John. I was only trying to save you from a potential disaster of a relationship. The girl clearly values her cats more than human contact--"

"Who are you to talk about human contact, Sherlock? You go on and on about how emotions _get in the way_ . . . " John threw his hands up in exasperation. "She was a sweet girl, and she's one of many you've chased out of here with your _analyses_."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side a bit. "John, did you really expect anything else when you moved in with me?"

"I honestly didn't know _what_ to expect--"

"And that thrilled you, didn't it? Two years later, you're still here."

When John didn't answer, Sherlock smiled his knowing grin, and John wanted to punch him. He wanted to lunge at Sherlock, grab him by his throat, shake him into sense. Because for all his intelligence, Sherlock really had no common sense.

So he told him just that: "You know how people _work_ , Sherlock, but you don't _know_ people. And you don't care to."

"Useless information--"

"It isn't, and you know it." John glared Sherlock directly in his piercing eyes. "You don't know me, or Melanie, or anyone--"

Suddenly, the smirk on Sherlock's face dissipated, and he replied, "I know you, John." His voice was low, something hidden behind it that John couldn't decipher.

"In fact, I don't think your irrational anger is about Melanie at all," Sherlock went on, "It's about you. You feeling the need to be needed, by her, by anyone. Of course, that's the typical mindset of a doctor . . . "

John dipped his head. He felt Sherlock's crystal gaze on him still, knew he was staring. Figuring him out. "Sherlock, don't you start--"

"But you want to be needed because you want a distraction. From what? From this." Sherlock gestures to the cluttered room surrounding them. "You thrive off the thrill of _us_."

 _Us._ The word sounded strangely personal coming from a man of few emotions, but it made John's heart jump all the same.

". . . And yet you want to get away. Even just for a while. Why? Because it scares you sometimes, John. How much you need _this_? It terrifies you."

And John wasn't stupid. He knew what Sherlock meant by 'this'. But neither of them spoke of the words behind the words. There was a long silence between the two, until finally, John spoke up.

"Yeah, well." John scoffed. "You say you know me. Fine. What you _should_ know is that the world doesn't center itself around you." He started to head for the door, deciding he needed some air.

"Oh, I know the world doesn't," Sherlock retorted, turning toward the window again, "But you do."

The last three words seemed to reverberate off the building's very walls, making cracks in the foundation, and John swallowed hard. In a flurry of movements he stormed out of the flat, heading to the pub to take his mind off it all, afraid to look back at the man he knew was still staring after him. The next morning greeted him with a blurry head and Sherlock's newest case, and no more was said between the two on the subject. It was left hanging in the air between them, and with time it began to collect dust, became stale, pushed farther and farther into the depths of John's mind with each passing day.

Now, it hums in John's mind like a funeral dirge, and he wonders if everything that had been left unsaid between them from that night on, were things Sherlock already knew. Things like, _I shouldn't have left that night_ and _I wanted to know you like you always knew me_ and most importantly, _You were right about me._

Because Sherlock, in his uncanny way, had worked through the weaving of John Watson more accurately than he ever had before that infamous night.

It's true that Sherlock had been the one to bring him out of the dark corner he'd wedged himself into after being sent home from Afghanistan two years prior. Sherlock, in his strange ability to desensitize himself from the world and yet understand its workings so fully, had complimented John in a way that made him feel as though the great big puzzle that was his life had finally found a piece to fit into.

That piece is gone now. And John feels empty once more, the center of his world spun off its axis and running off-course, faster than he could've ever imagined.

Sherlock had been right, as always. John needed to be needed. But what Sherlock had understood--better than John had himself--was that no matter how he tried to let himself be needed by someone else, no matter how he wanted it to be so--it never happened.

_It scares you sometimes, John. How much you need this._

John needed Sherlock to need him. He always had. And he still does. He needs it--this-- _him_ , like a drug.

John leans forward in his chair. He brushes his fingertips against the wood of the violin, imagining the feel of the touch of the person who used to make it sing grazing along its edges. He imagines his low voice decorated with permanent curiosity, the crooked glimpse of a smile that used to sneak its way onto his face. And in the dark, once again, John succumbs to his addiction.


End file.
